While I was dying
by SoldierOfMyShadowyMind
Summary: Will you forgive me for loving you? Kent gets severely injured during a hunt for a killer. When he wakes up in hospital without any memory of what happened the previous night he finds that no one can see or hear him. All on his own he reverts to his thoughts about himself, about Chandler, and about what he won't ever have.


**While I was dying**

"Call an ambulance!"

He couldn't figure out whose voice it was. It did sound vaguely familiar but he couldn't assign it to anyone. Shadows danced before his eyes, his sight was blurred. There were people, he could see the silhouettes, all running around seemingly agitated, shouting at each other. What exactly they were saying he couldn't even guess. It was as if his ears had suddenly quitted service. All he could hear was a jumble of muffled sounds. Then he felt someone nudging his arm. He wanted to turn and see who it was but his head was just too heavy to be moved. Instead he tried to squint sideways, get a glimpse at whoever it was.

"Kent, can you hear me?" He knew that voice. He knew it, he just needed a few moments to identify the corresponding person. But he wasn't granted these few moments since the hustle and bustle around him seemed to get even worse. The man at his side somehow got a darker shadow and Kent watched it emerge with a growing sense of vague fear until he noticed that it was just another man.

"I'll see to him, you go and get that bastard!" He sounded determined and angry.

"No, that's not important, we need an ambulance, now!"

"Yeah, let me manage that, you just go!"

"Mansell and some uniforms are after him-"

"And you think that'll-"

"Miles, this is not the right time to argue!" The man at his side was getting authoritative now. Kent knew that voice, he-

Something distracted him. "Emerson, can you hear me? It's me, Meg." The gentle tone was a nice change from the barking at his right side but it made no difference, really. So that was…Riley. Thinking was just so hard. His brain rebelled against it; it almost physically hurt. He tried to move, tried to sit up from his crouched position where he was leant against the wall but his body didn't obey him.

"No, don't move, you're injured. Just stay there" Riley kept talking but at some point his brain clocked off.

There was a rustling at his other side and then he heard a voice yelling into a phone. "Officer down! We need an ambulance! Quick!"

He just felt so tired. The rushed change between shadow and light hurt his eyes and the noise around him melted into one undistinguishable muddle. Deciding that a few minutes of peace were what he needed now he closed his tortured eyes. But as soon as he felt his mind relax a bit there was a shaking at his shoulder.

"Hey! Don't sleep! You have to stay awake!"

Did he now? But he didn't want to. Sleeping was so much easier. Nevertheless he tried to do his colleague – whoever it was, he couldn't tell anymore – a favour and opened his eyes again. There was no change to his sight since it was as dark as before. The silhouettes were there but soon they melted into each other forming a big dark mess. The darkness approached him and then everything went black.

* * *

I open my eyes. The first thing I see is a white ceiling. A sharp contrast to the darkness before. I blink a few times, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light. I take a look around. Apparently I am lying in a bed in a small room and all around me are…machines? Oh. A hospital. So I am injured? To be honest, I can't remember a thing. The last twenty-four hours at least are erased from my mind and no matter how hard I keep searching, I can't find anything. Nothing that would explain _this_, anyway. I look down and realise that I'm not wearing a shirt. There's a bandage around my stomach and it's soaked through on the left side. Okay. So I got shot. I need a few seconds to handle that new information. I reach out with one hand to touch at the bandage but flinch away when it sends a stabbing pain through my body. Slowly the memories of last night sink into my mind. It's not much, I only remember a dodgy house and a crowded room and people running and screaming. My brain's not able to provide me with anything more. But it's a start. I can worry about the rest later on.

My eyes dart through the room and finally catch sight of something I haven't expected. Or better say, _someone. _He sits on a chair next to my bed, his head in his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest. His eyes are closed but I can see that he isn't sleeping. He is _thinking._ I want to know what he's pondering about. Why he's even here. He doesn't have to be. It's not as if he's responsible for this. Or perhaps he is? He seems calm and relaxed but I can see the creases on his forehead. He looks as if he hasn't slept a wink. I wonder whether he's sat here all night. I can't detect a reason as to why he should have but here he is. Now I really want to know what happened last night. Where are the others? Gone home, I suggest. I squint towards the window to get a vague idea of what time it is but the curtains are drawn. Looking back towards him my mind drifts off into areas I only dare to enter when I'm completely alone. Although I'm sure the others know I don't want them to know about _that._ That's private. Personal. Way too personal. Somewhere at the back of my mind I know that my thoughts and imaginations are all I'll ever have. So I want to keep them. I cherish them although I'm ashamed of them at the same time. I shouldn't think like that, I really shouldn't but I can't help it. Everyone has a secret wish, something they'd never talk about to anyone. And so do I. Just that mine will remain a dream forever. It's not that I haven't tried. I did everything I could think of – everything that's not too telling – to make him notice but he didn't. And he still doesn't. And I can't get rid of the feeling that he won't. In the end, I know, I'll have to face it. That he's not like that. Not like me. I did consider that possibility before so I'm not completely shocked. But still the thought hurts. I've never been lucky when it comes to _that._ I'm even afraid to name _it_ which is ridiculous, really. I've always been this way and I know I won't change. I can't. And I don't want to if it means I can keep my dreams, my imaginations. They are all I have and I don't want to lose them. Sometimes they're even enough. Sometimes, in my quiet moments, when I've got time for myself, I try to convince myself that I don't need more. That I'm satisfied with what I have. Of course I'm not and believing that I am is just a weak admittance to this fact. But at least I can calm myself that I'll see him every day. Talk to him. I'll never be for him what I want him to be for me but sometimes I think that's okay. I can cope. Somehow I'll manage to deal with it. I have the past years and I'll do in the future. I'm not saying that it's going to be easy. Because it won't. I know there'll be dark days when all I'll feel is pain when I secretly watch him from my desk, observing his every move. When my wish, my desire is so strong I can barely stand it. I know how this sounds but everyone's experienced this. No one can say they don't know what this feels like. As far as this is concerned I seem to be doomed. I envy Riley and the skipper. They have families, they have someone who truly loves them no matter what. I'd like to have that. I even envy Mansell. He might not be good at keeping his girls but at least he always finds someone who takes it up with him. I tried to find someone else. But even that didn't work. It's not easy to get someone off your mind when all you can think about is them. And it doesn't help that he says things that only encourage me. Not that he does often but sometimes, between the lines, I think to notice something, a veiled meaning, a concealed message. Maybe I'm only deceiving myself and he means nothing at all but I can't help it. I want to believe it because I've got nothing else to hold on to. I know I'm grasping at straws but at least they prevent me from falling off the cliff. I don't want to imagine what happens if I do. It's not like I'm of weak character or anything, just when it comes to that I really can't control myself. I'm a mess anyway but it would only be worse would I discover that my hopes – as meek and irrational as they are – are being destroyed.

He's got no one because he thinks no one would want to put up with him. He just can't see that I wouldn't mind that. I don't care about his…demons. We all know about them, more or less. And I can manage that, surely I can. If I did mind then I wouldn't be so miserably in love with him, would I? I don't want anyone else, I don't want better, I don't want perfect, I only want him. I'm just so terribly afraid of telling him. What if my fear proves right and he's not like that? I don't dare imagining what he'll do. Maybe he'll throw me out of the team because I'm not able to work properly with all that between us. I don't want to risk that. I'd rather stay quiet and long for him from a safe distance. If that's how it's supposed to be then I need to learn to accept it. If that's all I'm going to get then I need to learn to appreciate it because I won't get anything else. I just can't help feeling that it's not fair. Why do I always seem to be the one who gets nothing? The one who's ignored, or even worse, blamed? I don't want to be alone. I can cope with it, I've even brought myself to make my peace with that, at least to some extent, but I don't want to. Not if I don't need to. What have I done that I don't deserve anyone? Erica always says I'm too stiff when it comes to these things. That I'm too reserved, that I need to be more forward. But she doesn't seem to understand that that's not my nature. That's not what I'm like. I tried – I have to, otherwise I'll never get anything at all – but that's all I can do. I'm just too bloody shy for these things. I can't just go and talk to people. Especially not with him. He's my superior officer after all. The respect we're supposed grant him may be the highest barrier between us. He's up there and I'm down here and there's no way I can get up to him. No matter which way I look at it, it always comes down to this. We'll never be. Erica says I shouldn't give up hope (she's noticed, she's my twin after all, there's no way she couldn't notice) but that's easy to say when you're looking from the outside. But not when you're right there in the middle of this mess that we are. That I am. I shouldn't speak about him, I can't judge him, I don't even know him properly. Which is another strange aspect of this odd story. How can you love someone you don't even know? Well, I do, just not _really. _Not _properly._ As much as I'd like that I don't.

All I've got is my job which is sad, really. But it's something I've got in common with him. Something that binds us together in some odd way. Perhaps that's something to go by, something to use as a basis. On which we can build…I don't know what. Or perhaps it's nothing and I'm finding hints where there are none. I'm always deceiving myself, tricking myself into believing that there's something else behind his words, or it's the other way round that I deceive myself pretending it's all okay the way it is now. And then there are times when I just don't know what to do. I just feel so helpless sometimes because I don't know whether to turn left or right. Both ways seem to lead into destruction and devastation. And I don't want to destroy what we have now. Even if it's not much but it's something. I would even go so far as to saying it's the beginning of a friendship. A polite one, yes, but we're friends. And I get the feeling that somehow, sometimes, he cares for me. Just a little bit, not the way I do about him, more in a way that teachers care for their students. But it's a comforting thought. Even if that sounds pathetic.

Now look where my thoughts have brought me. I should worry about the state I'm in – the physical state that is, my injuries, but it seems that my mental state is much worse – and instead I'm thinking about him. Again.

He's still sitting there. I don't know how much time has gone by since I woke up. It feels like ages and all the time I kept watching him.

I like watching him. Observing his features, the slight twist in his expression when a thought crosses his mind. I'd like to know what he thinks about. Whether he thinks about me at all. I doubt it. But then, he's here, isn't he?

He doesn't look good. Not only tired but worn out, exhausted. Even worried. He's had a long night, surely, and he needs to rest. And still he'd rather sit here and wait for me to wake up. Sometimes I really don't understand him. He always blames himself – another thing that we have in common. But I'd rather blame myself than to get anyone else involved. That never leads to anything good. In fact, it only causes more damage than is already done. Better hurt myself and hide it away than to hurt someone else.

I take in the sight of him, how he sits there, a huddled figure. His blond hair is not as immaculate as it usually is. A stray strand tangles onto his forehead and I can't help but think that he looks cute that way. Not so professional but somehow… I can't say _normal_ because nothing about him is, not really (I don't claim that for myself either, I'm a walking mess anyway) but it makes him appear a little less distant to me. As if a loosened tie and slightly messed up hair could bring him any nearer to me. It's ridiculous but for a second I allow myself to enjoy that thought. He looks a bit like he's got into a fight, his collar's not straight and his shirt's got a few pale stains and is that- There's blood on his sleeve. My blood? The thought crosses my mind before I can stop it. So did he…did he stay with me when I got wounded? It's a shame that I can't remember a thing, it's like I've got a mental blackout. As if I've drunk too much. Because if he did, I want to know, I want to…_remember_. I need my memories and each one is a treasure. I've got nothing else after all. Each moment we had together, no matter how short, no matter how unimportant it seemed, I've got in my mind, saved for eternity. They are the only things keeping me warm at night when I feel alone.

A sigh escapes my chest. It hurts a little and I touch at my wounded side again although that only makes it worse. I should stop thinking. Does me no good.

So I try to be silent for a moment, keep my mind blank and just lie there, staring at the ceiling. It doesn't last because before long my eyes travel back to him and I find myself watching him again. I should be ashamed (and I am, a bit) but I can't not look at him. Not when there's no one else here who could catch me doing it.

It's quiet in the small room. Except for the medical instruments. The regular beep of the machine next to me is driving me mad. So I decide to speak up. I would have to sooner or later.

"Sir?" I ask, my voice tentative.

I wait a few seconds but he doesn't look up. He doesn't even open his eyes and I know he's not asleep, I can tell from the way his features distort slightly as his mind is working, trying to suss out whatever he's thinking about; he should have heard me. I put it down to the fact that he's been awake for more than twenty-four hours and to my own whispering and try again, this time a little louder and with what I hope is a steady voice.

"Sir?"

Again there's no reaction. Now I'm getting confused. This isn't like him, he's much too attentive for that. I reach out a hand and shyly touch at his knee, expecting a flinch but it doesn't come. I don't need to be an expert to realise that this isn't normal at all. There's something going terribly wrong here. Is it a dream? Am I dreaming? Maybe I am but this is all so _real_, the room and the machines, the beeping noise, and him sitting there. No dream has ever felt so real. And no dream would be so long and slow (in absence of a better word); something would have happened by now, something to stir up the quiet setting.

This must be real – well, except for the fact that he's there. This is the only circumstance I'd assign peculiarity to. But even when I try it a third time he doesn't notice, doesn't move. So I push myself into an upright position – not without a cringe though – and heave myself out of the bed. I stumble forward and press my hand against the wall for support. When I think that I'm strong enough to walk I do a few steps into his direction but still he wouldn't look up. I crease my forehead and bite down on my lower lip. This doesn't feel right. I even muster up the courage to grab his shoulder and shake it gingerly but still he doesn't seem to notice. But he feels real, though. I can feel the fabric of his shirt beneath my hand, the warmth his body is radiating. This is getting creepier by the second. I look around trying to catch sight of anything unusual but there's nothing (at least nothing like a goblin squatting in the corner of the room or strikingly yellow clouds outside) so I assume that this must be reality. Although it certainly doesn't feel like it. But perhaps I'm just making it up and he's just fast asleep after that stressful shift, too asleep to notice me.

I decide to leave the room and look out for anyone I know. Or a doctor maybe. I shuffle towards the door and manage to open it with my still shaking hand. I didn't notice that I was that frightened and appalled until now. I stumble out into the corridor and turn my head left and right. It must be early in the morning because the daylight seeping through a window nearby is still weak and grey. There are not many people walking around which supports my assumption. I randomly choose one direction and walk down the corridor. Walking is difficult and with each step I take the numbed pain in my side gets stronger. The medicine is starting to wear off. But I pull myself together and suppress a painful groan and drag myself onwards. As I'm getting further down the corridor I can hear muffled voices that sound vaguely familiar to me. When I reach the corner I turn around and breathe a sigh of relief when I find Riley and the skipper standing a couple of metres away, engrossed in low-voiced conversation. Mansell's there, too, which surprises me a bit. He's slouched in one of the seats at the side of the corridor, sleeping (and snoring). I raise a hand when Riley suddenly turns around and her expression changes when she sees me.

"Riley! Thank God, I already thought I was going mad! I-" I stop short because she narrows her eyes at me but it seems as if she's looking right through me and then she murmurs, "I hope he's gonna make it. He didn't look good at all."

"He's a fighter. I'm sure he'll be up and about in no time." Miles puts a hand on her shoulder and she smiles sadly as she turns back towards him.

Miles continues, "I'm going to check on the boss, make sure he gets some rest. He's been at his side ever since we arrived. You stay here and look after that sod." He nods towards Mansell and cracks a smile before he makes his way down the corridor.

So it's true. He's been there all night. I'm still faltering to believe that. For some silly reason I ascribe more importance to it then I should. This doesn't have to mean anything at all. But still it shows me that he cares. He does.

As pleasant as it is I push the thought to the back of my mind and address myself back to the situation at hand. Which is alarming. Miles walks past me without even batting an eyelid, he doesn't seem to have noticed me as well. Riley stands there in the corridor and she does look a little lost, her gaze darting through the empty space, settling on nothing in particular, until she shrugs her shoulders and joins the sleeping Mansell. As she sits down I desperately try to make her notice me but she doesn't. What the hell is this?! I'm not a ghost, am I? Or- I'm not dead, am I? Because if I am, then- Despite the riot in my body I run (or what you can call running when you've just got shot and half your body is numbed by pain killers and medicine) back to the room where I find Miles standing next to the boss (he's awake now, they're talking) and they're both watching me. But not _me,_ just the part of me which is lying on that bed, sleeping. As if the situation wasn't already weird enough. I glance through the window and see myself. I look pale, weak, just like I am feeling right now. I'm still wondering how this is possible. Is this what they call an out-of-body-experience? Well, that's not a good sign if it is one.

I can hear them talking. The voices are muffled through the door but it's quiet here and- I can go in, can't I? They won't notice me, anyway.

"Why him?" he asks. He's got a name, why don't I use it? This is ridiculous, I'm not afraid of saying his name, am I? It's just that I never address him like that. It's always _sir_ or _boss_. Perhaps it's better that way. Not too personal. But maybe it's just another barrier that needs to be overcome. Names can be nothing and names can be powerful. Depends on the circumstances.

"It's always him. He doesn't deserve this." His voice is low, regretful. I can hear concern in it. (So, I've gone back to referring to him as _him_ then. Fine. Be it that way.) Is he talking about the Kray case? I get the feeling he is. You don't still think that it was your fault, do you? Because it's not. It was me and me alone. But enough of that, we don't need to talk this over and over.

Miles stands at his side, his hands buried in his trouser pockets. "It always happens to the ones who deserve it the least" he says. This is not very helpful and I can see _he_ is thinking the same.

"Yes, I suppose it does."

His answer lingers in the air and I feel a stabbing pain in my chest which probably is only an effect of my injury but may as well be related to his pained expression. Don't get my hopes up. Don't do this to me. Please, I can stand physical pain (and I've got enough of that right now) but not this. I won't survive another episode like that with Morgan. I flinch when her name appears in my mind and the picture of him smiling at her. The look in his eyes… I've learnt my lesson, I understand that you're not like me as much as I wished you to be and that's okay. No matter which way I might interpret your words, in the end they're just words and they don't mean anything at all, nothing more than what they're supposed to express, anyway.

He sighs and runs a hand though his hair. "We could have prevented this."

"Maybe. But it's not what you should be worrying about now" is all Miles replies to that.

"No, it's important." He means this. Nevertheless his tone is quieter when he continues. "To me, anyway. This wasn't necessary. We should have-"

"Look" Skip interrupts him. "We were dealing with a killer, with a mad man. It was a calculated risk. Things like this happen. Damage will be done. You can't control everything."

"But I should! I should be able to-" His voice cracks and he trails off. I need to get out, I can't listen to this any longer. But I'm still standing here. I can't move. It's like I'm rooted to the ground. He doesn't know what he's doing to me. He can't even see me, he doesn't know I'm here, so I can't blame him, not really.

"We couldn't know he was going to shoot." Miles's tone is calm but he could be talking to brick wall as well.

He's listening and yet he's not.

"But we should have anticipated it." He shakes his head and looks at me. Well, at my other self, that is. I follow his eyes and watch myself. My chest keeps rising and falling, my breath is regular but weak. I could be dead as well. I look the part, anyway. If it wasn't for the beep of the machine monitoring my vital signs I would have thought that I am. The injury looks even worse from the short distance. The blood seeping through has dyed the bandage dark red where it's draped over the wound. My skin is pale, a sharp contrast to the crimson. It's only now that I realise of what slim stature I am. It makes me appear even more fragile.

"I don't know what I'll do if he…" If I what? Die? I don't know what I'll do then either.

"He won't" Miles says and he sounds sure. How can he be? I hope he's right because damn it I don't want to die.

"Is there really nothing we can do?" He asks and his voice is less solid.

Miles just shakes his head.

They say you're supposed to talk to people when they're in a coma. Some people believe that helps to make them wake up. Well, I would hear it. I'm here, aren't I? I'm here and I'm not, I don't know what I really am. But would he talk? Not with Miles in the room, that's for sure, but would he if he were alone with me? He did stay all night, so maybe he'd even talk to me. I wonder what he would say. (I wonder what I would say if our places were swapped. I really don't know. Perhaps I would go all sentimental and talk rubbish and when he'd wake up he'd just frown at me.)

My mind drifts off again as I watch him. I could watch him for ages. He's so beautiful, even now – especially now – that he's so unprotected, his clothes in slight disarray. He seems vulnerable.

I gather my strength – or what I've got left of it – and take a step towards him. I'm standing close to him now, close behind his back and before I can think it through I reach out for him and place a tentative hand on his shoulder. He doesn't move – of course he doesn't, he can neither see nor feel me – and for some reason his lack of reaction makes me grow more confident so I tighten my grip on his shoulder, leave it gentle nonetheless, and rub my thumb in soft circles against his upper arm.

I almost smile at the thought that here I am, my hand on _his_ shoulder, touching _him_. I wouldn't even dare think about this normally, let alone do anything (in Miles's presence, mind you!). But then, this is just a dream, as real as it may feel.

He suddenly moves and I flinch, quickly removing my hand. I also take a step back, just in case.

"What did the doctors say?" he asks and it feels he does it only to say something, only to break the silence.

"You know what they said." The sergeant's tone is rough but calm. For some reason I am grateful that he doesn't continue any further because I'm not sure if I want to know. I'm not sure I could take it.

A sigh escapes his chest and he runs a tired hand over his face.

Miles seems to know where this is going so before _he_ can say anything he grumbles, "You can't protect him forever. He's a grown man, he can look after himself. He knows the risks of the job." He turns towards the door but halfway through the process he stops and says, "Let's go. You need some rest yourself. They'll let us know when he wakes up." He looks at him but gets no glance in return.

"No. No, I'll stay" comes the hushed answer. And that's that. He doesn't turn, doesn't look at his sergeant; he keeps his eyes focused on me as he continues to sit in that chair, his head in his hands.

Miles just sighs, defeated, and leaves the room. He walks right past me – or past the image of me or whatever it is I am right now.

Silence settles in the room as he watches me and I watch him. It's an odd feeling to think of myself as being in this room twice, like having a duplicate. Finally I am able to move and I walk over to the other side of the room to bring a few metres' distance between us, and lean against the wall next to the window. I rest my head against it as I keep watching him. He looks so… distressed, sad even. His eyes are half closed and his shoulders are hunched. I feel sorry for him, I do. I always worry about him. No matter what situation, it's always him. It's always been him, and it always will be. As much as the thought hurts, it's true. Sometimes I ask myself why it's _him_, it could have been everyone else. I keep looking but I can't find an answer. Maybe because there is none. You can't argue with your heart, can you?

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Emerson."

Something inside of me breaks. First I don't even realise that he's said something but when the words sink in I shiver and feel even worse. This is too much. He needs to stop this. I tell myself he's only worried about me like – well, like an officer about his colleague. The problem is I can't help but feeling that this sounds like more and I want to chide myself for even daring to imagine it because I know I'm only dreaming (in more than one way as it is, I mean _this_ isn't real, I'm not really here, I'm sleeping there in that bed), my mind is playing a trick on me, I'm making this up, over-interpreting his demeanour. But God, how much I want to believe this. I long for it, I won't deny it because where's the point in that? I'm confused, I feel shaken up. I'm a mess.

Why are you doing this to me? Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you using my name, you never do, you never have. I like the sound of it, though. Of him saying my name. I feel this is getting out of hand, he looks as if he's going to say something but he doesn't. He just keeps sitting there and watching me. Speaking of names, I should stop calling him _him_ because he's got a name for heaven's sake. But I can't bring myself round to do so. I don't know why. I keep looking for reasons where there are none.

It has been like that right from the start and it won't change now. I have been his all along and I always will be. He might not be mine, not ever, but I'm his. I've never felt more miserable in my life.

Will you forgive me for loving you?

I'm willing my heartbeat to slow down and take a long look at him. My mind is quiet for a few moments and just as I feel myself relax a bit, he closes his eyes and so do I. The darkness that surrounds me takes me in and wraps itself around me and I just let go. If I'm losing myself right now then be it that way, I'm not fighting. Somehow I just want to escape this weird situation. And there is something comforting in the darkness around me.

* * *

When I wake up it's midday. Or at least that's what I guess from the bright light that fills the room. I squint a few times until my eyes adjust and my sight is a little less blurred. I try to move and when it's not as painful as I expect I bring a hand up to my face and cover my eyes with my palm. I hide behind it for a few seconds before I run my hand over my face and take a deep breath. I don't even realise I'm in a hospital until I take a glance around the room. The white walls and the machines. It still takes me by surprise. I feel slightly shaken up, confused, just like you do when you've just woken up from a very strange dream. That weird feeling seems to be quite close to what I'm feeling like right now. I decide to blame it on the medicine.

When I turn my head I see a person I wouldn't have expected.

"Oh, hello" he says. "You're awake."

"Hello, sir" I greet him with a shy smile. I look at him and I find that he doesn't look well. I can't help but ask. "Have you…have you been here all the time?" I don't quite make it to the end of the sentence, at about halfway through it my voices cracks and it's but a whisper when I finish the question.

The beginnings of a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth and he nods. "Yes." It's a quiet admittance and his voice is steady. But then he quickly changes the topic. "How are you feeling?"

I look down to where the bullet hit me – that's the only thing I remember of last night. There's a gap in my memories, I have no idea what happened before or after it or how I even got here.

"All right…I guess" I say, not entirely convinced.

He smiles again and when he speaks his voice is warm and gentle. "That's a start. You…" he's grasping for words, he obviously doesn't know how to say it (say what?). "You were brave last night. I just wanted to thank you for that."

I chance a helpless smile. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're talking about. I don't remember anything."

"Oh." That's all he manages. I've never seen him so lost for words, he isn't like that usually.

"Well, um, we can talk about that later, your recovery is more important now. Just know that you…you acted courageously."

I want to say that no, we can talk about it now, because I want to know what happened the previous night but when I take a sharp breath, my side rebels and I wince in pain.

"You okay?" he asks immediately; if he wouldn't already be sitting there he'd be at my side in a second. Or at least that's what my mind is reading in his worried expression. Perhaps it's not there, I just _want_ to see it.

I close my eyes for a moment until the throbbing in my side has died down. I glance up at him again and nod. "Yeah, I'm all right."

Now he smiles and I know right away that I will never forget that smile. It's tender and genuine and there's relief in his eyes. Relief and something else. Is it- I hesitate to think it because maybe it is and maybe it's not but then what harm can be done in thinking it? (A lot, actually. My thoughts have ruined me more than once, and they will again, that's for sure.) But there _is- _He does care, I can see it in his blue eyes. I force myself to hold his gaze because I will scold myself for not doing so if I don't look at his smile for as long as possible. I need to memorise it, immortalise it in my thoughts. I can feel my heart going faster and I know I shouldn't be thinking that way, not here, not now, but I can't help it. I can't control myself in situations like this.

All of a sudden the door flings open and Mansell and Riley storm into the room.

"Kent, mate, we thought you'd kip through the next three years!" Mansell greets me but his pat on the shoulder – as friendly as it is intended – does more damage than good and I wince when a sharp pain rushes through my body.

"Sorry mate" Mansell holds his hands up and right now I just can't be cross with him.

My eyes travel back towards _him_, he's just getting up from his chair. He falters for a moment but then he nods his goodbyes into my direction and smiles before he turns and leaves. I watch him go and a melancholic feeling ties itself around my chest. But Riley and Mansell are quick to distract me as they ramble on about my apparent bravery of last night.

Later on I learn from Riley that we were hunting down a murderer last night and that I walked out in front of him when we had him trapped, telling him to put his weapon down. He threatened to shoot me but according to Riley's words I ignored that and just took step after step towards him when he suddenly got serious about his warnings and fired his gun. The bullet injured my left side and it'll take a few months for me to recover the doctors tell me.

When I enter the station two and a half months later – the doctor said I rather should stay at home for at least a couple of weeks longer but I can't, I don't want to – I am greeted with a round of applause and pats on the shoulder (this time Mansell's a little more careful which is somewhat funny, really, 'cause I'm better now). I take it all with a nod and a smile but my thoughts only belong to one man. He's sitting in his office, I can see him through the glass of the door. When he looks up to figure out what the sudden ruckus is all about he catches my gaze and I can see his lips turn into a gentle smile. Then he gets up and the next thing I know is him shaking my hand and saying something along the lines of _I'm glad to have you back_ (he said _I _not _We. _Surely that must mean something?). I just smile and hold his hand as long he lets me and when he lets go I feel my heart sink as if a part of me just died with his touch falling away and the contact breaking.

The day passes by and it feels like only a very long second until everyone's clocked off and I'm the only one left in the incident room. I haven't done anything today, really, at least not worked properly. It wasn't exactly possible, not with the memory of him smiling at me in that hospital room pretty much occupying my mind. I still can't believe that he stayed by my side all the time without even thinking about himself for once. It feels good, it does, way too good and I know I have to be careful, I mustn't let this go to my head. This is a dangerous invitation for the deceit (the positive one, the one that only hurts in the end) to take over again and I know that. It's just so hard to deny myself this moment of happiness, hope. Hope is worst, I'm well aware of that and I know I shouldn't get my hopes up again but I can't help it. Not with him sitting in his office, occasionally looking up. When he catches my eye – which is the case most of the time – he smiles and my heart just melts a little each time he does. I chide myself for not managing to hold his gaze for longer and enjoy the smile but I'm too shy for that. It gives me away, I know, but I don't really care. The others know and what difference does it make if he knows, too? I'm hopeful now that he wouldn't do anything about it, at least not in the near future. And I'm allowed a short time of false happiness, aren't I? It's a rare occasion and it's going to be over soon so I should cherish every moment. Which I do. Every time I go to his office – which I do quite often, I have to admit; it's become some sort of habit that I'm always the one telling him when he needs to be informed about something (even if it's not strictly necessary for him to know), at least for today – I try to stay there as long as possible, as long as I can bear it without the situation getting too odd for the both of us. But he doesn't seem to mind. I might be imagining that but it certainly seems that way. To me. At least I can tell he's not displeased to see me each time I knock on the door. I know I'm making a fool of myself. If the others ever had reason to believe that my feelings for him go beyond a working relationship then today's behaviour is proof. Somewhere at the back of my mind I'm aware of the way I'm talking and the fact that I'm constantly watching him but today I _just don't care. _I haven't seen him for six weeks and all I had during that enormously long time was the memory of his smile and this just _isn't enough_. It's more than once that Mansell shoots me a mocking look and Riley grins knowingly and I'm aware of Miles watching me when I talk to _him_ but God, I. Don't. Care. I might regret this tomorrow or next week or a month from now but I can worry about that when the time comes. My side doesn't even hurt anymore – or maybe it does but I'm just too distracted to notice. I know I'm dangerously close to falling off the cliff – not now but when the day's over and the moment of my heightened spirits is gone. I'm going to be miserable for the rest of my life but if it means I can be happy for just this day then it's worth it. Just let me deceive myself for today.

When the others have left and the day draws to a close it's just him and me left in the incident room. I am nervous, I'm fidgeting with my fingers and my heart is beating way too fast but this is my chance and I know I'll regret it more than anything if I don't use it. So I get up (my knees might shake a bit) and again I walk around my desk to his office and again I knock. And _again_ he looks up and I look down because I just can't bear to look him in the eyes (those beautiful eyes) and we both remain quiet for a moment.  
The air between us is loaded and I don't know where the sudden courage comes from but I open my mouth and say, "I wondered…" Yeah, and that's it. _I wondered whether you'd like to go get a drink_ was what I originally wanted to ask but the question's stuck in my throat and no matter how hard I try, my lips just won't form the words that so desperately need to be said. Come on, I can do this! But my body seems to believe otherwise and then I remember something I've forgotten about over the months. And with that thought suddenly crossing my mind my question ends like this: "…whether you caught him. The killer, you know…" My words get lost in the distance and inwardly I want to scream because I just wasted the best – and only – chance I'll ever get but I just can't get myself to do it. I really intended to, I did, but in the end asking him out was a step too high for me. A wave of despair washes over me and my mood changes from top of the world to downcast in record speed.

I can feel his gaze on me and I automatically retreat into my shell, my shoulders slacken and I'm shrinking at least an inch. I'm keeping my head down, just in case. The last thing I need now is him seeing my expression (which is _very _telling, of that I am more than sure).

"No."

It is only one word but it makes me glance up. I blink in confusion.

"We didn't catch him. He escaped." His voice is low and I can tell I've hit a weak spot. This is not where this should be going. God, this is all going down the wrong road. This is _not_ what I wanted this evening to be like.

"But…" This is not a brilliant way for me to start but my next try isn't elegant either. "I assumed…" Yeah, 'course I did. But apparently I assumed wrong.

"Some of us went after him but he just disappeared into thin air. We haven't found him till today. We kept searching but it led to nothing. I haven't got the foggiest idea as to where he's gone."

He sounds so downcast I feel the strong urge to hug him but I keep myself from moving. Instead I only manage a meek, "I'm sorry."

He looks up at that and our eyes meet and as much as I want to look away I can't. "You shouldn't be. You of all shouldn't be" he says.

Perhaps that's true but I can't help it. I do feel sorry for him. He doesn't deserve this. He's such a great detective, we all look up to him, and still fate always gets into his way.

When I don't answer he suddenly gets up and I think to hear concern in his voice when he asks, "You all right?"

I want to say that yes, of course I am, but I'm not. I'm absolutely everything but. But I stay quiet – which gives me away, I know. He walks around his desk towards me but stops at a safe distance, keeping professionalism alive. Of course, he should be. He falters for a moment but then he seems to change his mind and takes another step towards me. I can feel my heart rate speed up (which isn't healthy at all) but no matter how hard I try, I'm not able to will it to slow down. He's way too close for that. In fact, there's barely half a metre between us now and I wonder whether he has noticed my breath going faster. What he certainly doesn't know is that he's killing me. He needs to stop that immediately if he wants his officer to come to work tomorrow. But instead he just keeps on pushing the dagger into my heart.

"Kent. You shouldn't worry about that." For some reason it is now that my mind gifts me with the memory of him saying my Christian name. Although I'm not quite sure where that memory comes from, I don't remember him doing so. However, it only manages to make me feel more miserable. Where is my good mood gone? I want it back; I only expected it to fade tomorrow.

"Hey." His voice is soft as silk as he lays a reassuring hand on my arm. Well, I guess it's intended to be reassuring but it pretty much has the opposite effect. I somehow manage to glance up to him and I regret it immediately. The hurt in his eyes is too much for me. I knew it. This would be my detriment, I just didn't want to believe it. Not now, anyway. I must admit, I didn't expect it to take effect so soon. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe my mind isn't able to assess the situation properly but I know that's a weak excuse. He's too close for me to be able to think clearly and I need him to get away from me. Now. I can hear steps approaching from the distance and this is what finally makes him step back. He lets the touch fall away and as soon as it is gone I want it back. I know I'm being irrational. The steps don't come near the incident room, they only pass us by and fade away into the distance. The silence that ensues is even worse. I need to get away from here right now. If I don't get out instantly I'm not sure I'll survive this.

I turn around rather violently, the question I originally wanted to ask completely forgotten about, and I'm just about to make my way back to my desk when his voice stops me short.

"Emerson."

I freeze. So there it is. He did it (again?). He said my name. It feels strange but in a good way if that makes any sense. Slowly, very slowly I turn around again to face him and when I do, there's the smile again, the one from my memories, the one from the hospital room and suddenly everything's okay again. I didn't know it only needed that smile to make me feel better. But there it is and I know I'm staring but right now I don't care.

I quirk an eyebrow, a silent question because I'm not confident enough to rely on my voice.

And then he does what I wanted to do when I first knocked on his door a few minutes ago.

"You... I wondered whether you have any plans for tonight?" He manages way better than I did but still his voice cracks a little and I almost _smile_ at that because it's just so cute.

"Not particularly, no" I breathe. I want the ground to open up and swallow me right now because I just feel so embarrassed. My cheeks are hot, they're burning and I know he can see that.

"You wouldn't coincidentally like to go to the pub?" Why is even asking? The question is superfluous, of course I want to, I've waited for this for years.

God, it's just the bloody _pub_.

But still, he did ask me out, didn't he?

I know I'm grinning like a fool and the blush deepens when I bring myself to voice a sheepish, "Um, yes?" I can't be entirely sure that this is real, I might be dreaming. This might just be the side effect of the medicine. The pain killers I took this morning were of a rather strong sort.

"Great." And that's that. We don't need any more words. Or let's say, _I_ don't need any more words because I've never been more in love than right now. I can't be sure that my mood is justified but I'm feeling just so ridiculously happy and I want the feeling to stay. My head is spinning and my heart is pounding against my chest with joy as I chance a look at him. His eyes are soft and the smile is still there and it kills me. And even if this evening, this outing is just a friendly offer in order to get away from work and forget about crime scenes and forensic reports for a couple of hours then I don't mind. It's all right and no matter what meaning _he_ ascribes to it; I'll enjoy this as much as I never enjoyed anything and I'm going to be happy and hold this day close to my heart. It's another precious piece in my collection of memories I have of him and it's going to be one of the best.

And his hand on my arm might mean something. But even if it doesn't then that's okay. I can cope. I've got my memories and they're all I need.


End file.
